


A Place Like This

by thecarlysutra



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Character(s) of Color, F/F, Female Character of Color, Pie, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-22 15:48:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6085602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecarlysutra/pseuds/thecarlysutra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY: Funny you’re the broken one, when I’m the only one who needed saving.<br/>AUTHOR’S NOTES: Set during BtVS S3. Written for the femslash_minis Ladies of Color round for kwritten who requested vanilla ice cream melting on hot pie, faded jeans, and sunrises. Summary from Rihanna’s <i>Stay</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Place Like This

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kwritten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kwritten/gifts).



  
“Hey there, sweet angel.”

Buffy-Anne heard the words wolf whistled from one of the greasy diner patrons, and froze. The first instinct from her traitorous heart was, “Angel?” But that was impossible; Angel was dead and gone, and at her own hand, no less. 

Buffy turned, peeking at the diners from behind the lazy Susan of tickets in the kitchen. One of the awful men was hooting, and for once, it wasn’t at her. Buffy watched from her haven in the kitchen as a beautiful girl walked through the door. She was light-skinned and curly-haired, wearing a gauzy, pink tank top and faded jeans. There was a cast on her right hand, and Buffy felt an instant kinship with her—like Buffy herself, she looked like she didn’t belong here, like she was meant for better things.

The girl slid into a booth near the door, the sunlight shining across her pretty features. Buffy delivered coffee and runny eggs to table three, and brought the girl a menu. 

“Thanks,” the girl said, barely looking up. Buffy, meanwhile, couldn’t stop looking. The oldest pickup line in the book crossed her mind: _what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?_

Buffy fumbled with her pad, the pen shaking in her hand.

“We had a special, but it’s gone,” Buffy said. “It was gross, anyway. But there’s fresh pie. As fresh as it gets around here, anyway.”

The girl looked up from the menu, and smiled. “Thanks—” She squinted at Buffy’s nametag. “—Anne.”

“What happened to your arm?” Buffy asked.

The girl frowned at her cast. “Little roughhousing,” she said. “How about some coffee, and a piece of peach pie.”

Buffy scribbled the order onto her pad. “I’ll ala mode you on the house,” she said, and the girl smiled again.

***

Buffy placed the warm peach pie, dripping with vanilla ice cream, in front of the girl. Buffy watched her eat out of the corner of her eye as she wiped down tables. The lunch crowd thinned as the clock clicked past two, and Buffy found herself alone with the girl. She hovered by the girl’s booth, tapping her pen on her pad.

“Anything else?” she asked.

The girl licked a drop of melty vanilla ice cream from her lip. “I don’t think so,” she said. She left a few faded bills on the table, and got up to leave.

_Wait,_ Buffy wanted to say. _Tell me—how do you do it? How do you live a life like this?_

But she didn’t say anything, just forced a smile as the girl walked past her to the door.

***

It was dark when Buffy walked home. She pulled her sweater around herself, put her head down, and trudged on. 

She was only a couple of blocks away when the little hairs on her arms pricked up. Buffy stopped, closing her eyes briefly.

“I so don’t have time for this,” she muttered, and turned, squinting to spot the vampire lurking in the shadows behind her. She didn’t have a weapon, because she wasn’t the Slayer anymore; she was Anne, a waitress who worked at a crummy diner. Anne was pure as the driven snow; there was no blood on her hands. Anne’s heart sat like a stone in her chest: without feeling, but without pain. 

The vamp stepped out of the shadows. Buffy was composing a devastating quip when her vision went black. A sharp force from behind her knocked her from down, her head banging against the pavement, the rough asphalt abrading her skin. Buffy scrambled to her feet just in time for the second vamp to grab her. Buffy struggled in his grasp, then butted her head back hard. She heard felt the crunch of bones as her skull connected with the vamp’s; he released her, grabbing at his bloody face, and Buffy ran. She could hear the vamp from the shadows running behind her, and she wished she had a stake, some pepper spray—anything. One against two had better odds when you had a weapon.

From the darkness, someone shouted, “Get down!” 

Buffy fell into a crouch, and she heard the familiar, hollow _thwap_ of a crossbow releasing its arrow. She looked back in time to see the advancing vamp turn to ash raining down on the sidewalk. A hand grabbed her shoulder; Buffy jumped to her feet, fists ready, only to find the girl from the diner grabbing for her hand.

“Run!” she said, and they ran.

***

The girl—Alonna—gently pressed a cotton ball, damp with hydrogen peroxide, to the cut on Buffy’s forehead. They were underground somewhere, the walls fortified, teenagers with crossbows, spears, and stakes milling about.

“What is this place?” Buffy asked.

“It’s home,” Alonna said. She removed the cotton ball, and frowned.

“You heal quick,” she said.

Buffy shrugged. Her eyes caught a box of munitions across the room; were those grenades? What a great idea.

Buffy feigned ignorance. “What were those things?”

Alonna met her eyes. “Vampires.”

“And you—you fight them?”

She nodded. “Most of my life.”

“Well,” Buffy said, “that sucks.”

***

Alonna made her stay in the bunker until sunrise. Alonna took her away from the bustle of the war room, into a small bedroom in the back. It was poor, but neat and obviously loved. The little mattress on the floor was made up with pink linens so old that they were soft as ermine. The cinder block bookcase on the wall was full of magazines and weapons and small, pretty perfume bottles.

They sat down together on the bed. 

“I guess all of this is pretty strange to you,” Alonna said.

Buffy’s lip trembled. She met Alonna’s eyes. 

“How do you do it?” she asked.

“What choice do we have?”

Buffy shook her head. She searched Alonna’s eyes desperately.

“No,” she said. “I mean, how do you _do it_?”

Alonna was quiet for a moment, her eyes slowly traveling the features of Buffy’s face. Alonna’s fingertips traced the curve of Buffy’s cheek.

“Together,” she said. 

Alonna leaned in to kiss her, her fingers tangling through Buffy’s hair. Buffy closed her eyes as their lips met, feeling a flutter in Anne’s stone heart.  



End file.
